


What Takes a Hawk

by gloss



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Drunk Sex, Hero Worship, Jealousy, M/M, Mirror Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rough Sex, kinkmeme prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 15:44:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6430549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Han's jealous, Poe's crushing, and Leia doesn't have time for this shit.</p><p>Based on <a href="https://tfa-kink.dreamwidth.org/3961.html?thread=8167545#cmt8167545">this kinkmeme prompt</a>: "Poe is obviously Leia's favorite, so Han sleeps with him. Possibly a little roughly. Poe is oblivious that he's part of a power play and kind of ecstatic."</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Takes a Hawk

**Author's Note:**

> please note CNTW and the tags; Han's not a great guy here.

  
what takes a hawk and lets it know  
there are things less grand than flying, things that crave.  
— Afaa Michael Weaver, "Nice to Meet You"

 

Everyone knows when Solo's back. 

You don't need to see a Wookiee, or the now-lost freighter, to know. It's a change in the weather, bright beautiful spring sun for a little while, and then the temperature drops, clouds rush in, and you're all running for cover, tying down anything loose, and waiting it out, hoping it passes much more quickly than last time.

That is to say, while General Organa's mood usually doesn't influence that of the entire base, Solo's presence, as usual, changes everything.

During a routine maintenance check, Karé Kun breaks her ankle hopping out of the cockpit.

In the mess, the cookery-droid adds enough sodium to every dish to kill a juvenile Ewok.

Connix confuses Republic measurements for old Imperial ones and deploys an entire shuttle run almost to the black hole at the center of the galaxy.

Even BB-8 is out of sorts, a little mulish and glum.

Poe doesn't get it, frankly. The man is a legend in several different senses. They'd all be lucky to share a moment in his company.

-

He finds Solo in the pub, hands him a brimming glass of ale, and says, "Can I join you?"

"Make yourself comfortable," Solo says.

Poe settles in. "Can I ask you something?"

Solo squints past Poe. "Answer me something first."

"Anything."

"What the kark's wrong with everyone on this base?"

Poe almost chokes on his sip. "What's that?"

"Never seen such a bunch of tightass frigid-hearted _assholes_ ," Solo says. "Can't get more'n two words out of them, meet their eye, nothing."

"You're bad news," Poe says. "Bad news and bad luck."

Solo snorts and drains his ale. "Like I've never gotten that one before."

Poe holds up his hands. "Hey, didn't say _I_ agree. You asked, I answered."

"Yeah, you're real helpful. No wonder she likes you so much." 

"Who?" Poe asks.

"Funny. Leia, who else?" Solo narrows his eyes and looks him over. "You're Dameron's kid."

Poe salutes. "Yeah."

"Look like your mom."

"So they say."

"Always thought it was bullshit when she mustered out," Solo says, but he isn't really talking to Poe. "No offense."

Poe doesn't pursue the topic. It wasn't his fault they both went civilian, no matter how much it might have felt like when he was growing up.

Solo gestures for another round.

Poe drags his chair a little closer. "So what I wanted to ask you was –"

"Eleven-point-six parsecs, lucky shot from the _Falcon_ but Luke did all the real work, and the second time was all Lando, not me," Solo says, counting off on his fingers, not looking up. "Kessel run, Death Star, second Death Star, right?"

"No," Poe says. "But thanks?"

"Yeah," Solo says. "So what's she got you doing?"

"Who?" Poe's honestly confused, still trying to figure out how to ask his question about route deviations in hyperspace navigation.

Solo rolls his eyes, chirping, "Who? Who?", like a kid's toy droid. He lifts his chin, indicating, apparently, the quarters all the way across the base. "Leia. Called you quote-unquote indispensable. What's she not dispensing you on?"

Poe glances around. There are several answers to that, depending on one's security clearance and need to know. But this is Han Solo, so none of that applies, not really.

"Some recon," he says, keeping his voice low. He'd tell Solo anything, but not in public, not with drunks constantly bumping into his chair and holo-singing contests blaring. "A little info retrieval. Some one-man missions."

Solo looks impressed, and Poe's about to smile, the warmth of that stealing through him, but then the expression shifts into mockery. "Super spy Dameron, probing the secrets of the galaxy, all at her majesty's beck and call, huh?"

"No, I didn't mean –" Poe sits back. He's probably had too much to drink. This isn't going very well. "I don't think she goes by 'her majesty' anymore."

"Trust me, kid," Solo replies, tipping his glass toward Poe, then drinking it all down. "Majesty's always going to be her thing."

"Yeah, that's true," Poe says, smiling now, because he might hate everything about aristocracy, but the general's grace and regalness are _part_ of her, like the color of his own eyes or the smirk on Solo's face. "Good point."

Solo rolls his eyes again. "Ever sleep with her?"

All that warmth plummets out of Poe and he just sits there, gripping the edge of the table, cold and empty as a disassembled blaster. "What? Sir, I'd _never_ –"

"Valid question," he says. Then, louder and falser, "No skin off my back, I've got no claim." He picks up Poe's half-full drink and finishes it in three swallows. "Never merited exclusive claim _anyway_ , even back when –." He circles his hand vaguely. "Back when. You know."

"Sure," Poe says, even though he's having trouble following again. He wonders just how long Solo's been drinking tonight. "Of course."

"So." Solo leans in, and Poe leans in to meet him, and the man's eyes are bright in the dimness, the silver in his hair glinting. "Have you?"

Poe swallows. "No. No, sir."

"Can the 'sir' shit, sonny."

"Right. No." He licks his lips. "No, I haven't."

Solo smiles so slowly it could take all night to finish. "But you've thought about it. _That's_ all over your face."

Poe squeezes his fists under the table and stays still, keeps his voice steady. "Sure I have." Before Solo can say anything - and he's about to, his mouth's opening, and one brow's lifting, and, anyway, when has he ever managed to stay quiet? - Poe adds, "Thought about you, too."

Solo's grin in response is broad, quick, a flash and then it's gone. "Heh, well. Isn't that just a kick in the nuts?" 

"I'm not that rough," Poe says.

Solo's on his feet, emptying his pockets of credit slips. "I am. Let's go."

-

The whole bar sees them leave together. Han didn't plan on that, but sometimes - not nearly enough for his taste, but sometimes - things work out just beautifully.

The kid - he's not a _kid_ , certainnly older than Luke and Leia were when Han first met them, which remains his benchmark for the term - has had too much to drink, but he holds it fairly well. Doesn't stumble much, actually moves pretty gracefully. His face is stained red, though, and there's sweat at his hairline. 

He laughs a lot, too loud.

"Ssh," Han tells him, not really meaning it. Dameron bites his lip, abashed, and Han has to shake his head. "Don't _cry_. Just, watch the volume."

He's got his mama's eyes, but Han's just sober enough to know that saying so would kill this moment. He's not about to lose this chance.

"I can get pretty loud," Dameron says, almost guiltily, before smiling slyly, like _that's_ going to change Han's mind. All it does is make his dick twitch very appreciatively.

"Good," Han says, taking his hand and pulling him through the port's bays. "Just save it for inside."

"I have a private bunk," the kid says, a little breathless, twisting around to point off somewhere that's actually the woods. "When I made commander, I got it."

"Well, I've got a stateroom, so I win." Han pushes him up the gangway, hands on his shoulders. Mama's pretty eyes, but Daddy's big shoulders and neat, compact body, ass included. Han holds him by the waist when they're inside and the gangway's clanking closed, pilots him back almost to the hold, then to the captain's quarters.

He's young, sure, but he's not a kid, not really. Not with that stubble coming up, rasping against Han's face when he turns to kiss him, not with the strength in his hands, gripping Han's back every bit as hard as Han's working his ass, not with the heat and pressure behind his fly when Han backs him up against the bulkhead and grinds their hips together.

But he _is_ a kid in the openness of his face, the damn _transparency_ of his expression, hooded eyes and red swollen lips when Han pulls back and pushes him through the passage into the stateroom. Dameron does stumble now, right onto the triple-wide berth, landing on his ass, laughing.

Laughing like a kid, delighted and horny and reaching for Han like this is just a good time they're having. He shakes the hair out of his eyes and scoots closer, yanking off one boot, then the other, then attacks Han's belt.

"Eager little thing, aren't you?" Han's voice is a little rough, his throat pretty sore.

"Sir, yes, sir," Dameron says, sarcastic and sweet in equal measure. He hooks his thumbs into Han's waistband and pulls himself up onto his knees to kiss him again.

All that stupid military crap, shit that Han assumed was long done with, which had never really applied to him _anyway_ , careens back into his life every time he comes back here. It could make him scream, and it has, but right now, it's doing something else to him, burrowing deeper and hotter, right in his balls and up his cock. He yanks on Dameron's hair, tilting back his head and kissing him hard enough to bruise.

Neither of them is sober enough to kiss and work open buckles and flies, so they keep pausing, hands knocking each other, tugging open and down and _out_ , until Han's kneeling over one of Poe's thighs, shoving him on his back, and jerking their cocks together as he kisses him again, and again.

He knows exactly what Leia likes about the kid. The man. Pretty and tough as anything, sweet-natured as Luke, pliable and helpful as none of them ever were. He's everything she loves and nothing that's tried to destroy her - there's nothing of Han's own selfishness in this kid, not a trace, even less than that of Vader's cruelty, not a bit of Ben's truculence or Luke's absence.

"Hey," Dameron says, hand on Han's cheek. "Where'd you go?"

Han lets go of his dick and pushes Dameron's legs open more widely, resettling between them, tugging the kid forward until his ass is off the bed, riding Han's thighs.

"Right here," Han says, and takes a second to admire the sight under him. Dameron's sweaty and spread, ready for _anything_ , a curving smile on his lips. "Need some proof?"

Dameron's tongue flickers in the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, probably should verify."

Han wants to fuck that mouth, good and hard, see those pretty lips on his dick, flood the tight throat. Han isn't, however, nearly as young as he'd like, and pacing, deliberation, and a modicum of care are in order.

"Here, then." He gives Dameron three fingers to suck good and wet, then hauls one leg up over his shoulder and slips his hand down Dameron's crack. "Right here."

"Yeah," Dameron says. He blinks and rocks his hips into Han's touch. Such a helpful soul. "Got it."

"What'd you think about?" Han strokes his knuckles against Dameron's hole. "In your little fleet bunk, of a night, jacking off?"

Dameron's eyes widen, his mouth falls open, but just as quickly, he composes himself. As much as you can be composed when someone's fingering your asshole and your dick's drooling for it, that is. 

"This," he says eventually, grimacing, then grinning, when Han works his finger in as far as it'll go alone. "You."

"Sweet," Han replies, two fingers in now. Dameron bears down on him, his neck lengthening and shoulders widening as he pushes, stretches, into the touch. "So I brought you flowers and we cuddled?"

"No," Dameron says, and he's reaching for his dick.

"Not yet," Han tells him, swatting his hand away. "What about her? Tell me about her."

He pushes up on one hand, cocking his head. Squeezes Han's fingers inside him before saying, "Not that. Not talking about –'

Han twists his hand and Dameron's face lights up, opens, _radiates_. "You sure?"

"Yeah," he says, breathless, hips thrusting. "Yeah, I'm sure."

Stupid honorable _morons_. Han doesn't have to like it, or respect it, but he's good enough at looking out for his own skin that he knows not to push it, not if he wants to fuck something more than his own hand tonight.

And this, _this_ , is so much better: Dameron, sweaty and flushed, wrapping an arm around Han, kissing him while Han spreads his fingers and reaches deep.

"Slick?" he asks, eventually, voice strained.

"No," Han says. 

Dameron looks into his eyes for half a moment before shimmying down, taking Han in his mouth. This is the kind of man Han usually hates; more handsome than seems possible and good at damn near _everything_ , including sucking cock like a Coruscant escort, all spit and suction and swirling tongue that promises to pull every drop out of Han's balls, every secret from his lips.

Han pushes him off. "That's good."

Dameron's mouth is a beautiful mess. "Hands and knees?"

Han wants that, sure, drive into him like an animal, just _pound_ , but he also wants to see the kid while he fucks him, watch that open face just get brighter, and he wants so much more, every possibility condensed into one grand screw.

"Over there," he tells the kid, moving him bodily to face the 'fresher and the mirror over the clothes storage. He pushes Dameron's shoulders down and pulls his ass up. When he runs the head of his dick down the kid's crack, he gets a bitten-off moan and full-body tremble. 

Dameron turns a little, looking over his shoulder. "Lose your place?"

He wiggles his ass as he says it. He's smiling. It's a joke, light and teasing, and Han should give it right back.

Instead, he spreads the cheeks with one hand and pushes _in_ , not stopping until the head's all the way in and Dameron's not mouthing off any more. He's dropped his head, his shoulders are flexing, and there's a whimper rising up.

But he's also rocking back, taking Han in, and the muscles in his thighs bunch and shift under Han's fingers. Like this, hairy legs and spread hole and rhythmic curses, he's no kid, but he's so _tight_ that you could be forgiven for thinking otherwise.

He takes it, and asks for more, and even when Han roughens the rhythm, just to see what will happen, he moans and drops his hips, spreading his legs farther, shifting Han inside him until Han's the one seeing stars and streaks of light.

"Need to –" Dameron looks over his shoulder again. "Sir. Need to touch, _augh_ , my –" 

Han pulls his hips higher so his dick can't get any friction on the coverlet. "Wait."

"Yeah," Dameron says and grinds back, makes Han grunt and thrust harder. "Okay, yeah."

 _Indispensable_ , she said, with that fond smile on her lips and faraway look in her eyes. One of a kind, indispensable. _Once in a lifetime_ , even.

Maybe she can afford hyperbole; Han's never known the luxury.

"Look up," Han tells him and waits, stilling his thrusts, until Dameron is peering blearily ahead into the mirror.

"Hey," Dameron says, hoarse and fucked-up, but still _sweet_. He's _smiling_ , for fuck's sake. "Look at that."

"Who's fucking you?"

His shoulders bow and heave as he thrusts back and takes a breath. "You. Sir."

Han draws fingernails down the sweat on Dameron's back, white scrapes on flushed skin. "You like it?"

"Yeah," he says. "Love it."

He's bent over like a bitch in heat, and he's still asking for more, rocking against Han, twisting his hips, panting open-mouthed. 

"Look at you, hungry for it."

Han meant that meanly, meant it to sting like a slap, but he's so close to coming that his voice almost breaks and he sounds...awed, almost. Wondering. He looks down, focuses on a bite mark on Dameron's shoulder.

"I am." Dameron nods, never looking away from the mirror. "You're so good, sir, please, I –"

He's not –. He means it, Han realizes, he means every damn word. He's a sincere fucking little baby, dying for it, his hole squeezing off Han's dick, pumping out his come, _sucking him dry_ , and he does love it, he loves every drop.

Han crashes forward, blanketing him, hips jackrabbiting as he finishes coming. The whole time, Dameron's moaning like this is his orgasm, like they're sharing something.

Han pants into the bed next Dameron's cheek, jitters and twitches running through him. Sweat in his eyes, something aching in his gut.

When Han softens and starts to slip out, Dameron whimpers like it's a loss, a hardship. Despite himself, Han soothes him, pats back his hair and presses his mouth against the nape of his neck.

"Can I?" Dameron struggles to roll over, arm going around Han's waist automatically. "Can I come now?"

"Knock yourself out," Han says.

He smiles, like that was funny, and catches his lip in his teeth while taking himself in hand. Han thinks about getting up, maybe finding something to eat or going to the 'fresher, but he's still here, watching.

Dameron leans in, mouth open, kissing Han before Han's decided if he feels like it. But, yeah, now he _does_ feel like it, hand on Dameron's jaw, holding him still and gently, tasting every centimeter of the slick warmth that's offered to him without a single string attached.

Someone's going to break this man's heart.

He pants into Han's mouth, the sticky slapping sounds of his hand on his dick getting quick and ragged, and Han curses every moment of his life, all the way back to stopping over in Mos Eisley and accepting that one terrible stupid job, every lesson learned about generosity and doing unto others.

Because he's slipping down the bed, nudging Dameron onto his back, kissing the back of Dameron's wrist, his hand, then licking the head of his cock when it emerges from his fist. He lies on his side, mouth on Dameron's cock, as spit runs down his chin to join all the pre-come. His jaw aches at first - it's been awhile - but there's nothing tricky about this. 

He's here, and Dameron's whining out one long moan, so he might as well go all in. He pushes lips down, tucks his tongue down out of the way, fills his mouth with the heat and weight of Dameron's cock. Kid's shuddering against him, moaning, begging for it, warning him, clutching at his hair, and Han doesn't give a shit, he swallows and swallows again until the dick's scraping past his palate and choking off his throat.

He sees black and more black and hears the shout that shakes the bed, feels that rapid sequence of flexes and pumps, and swallows down whatever, all of it, the kid has to give.

He breathes, later, mouth sour with come, head dizzy, and reminds himself sternly to kick Dameron out sooner rather than later.

-

As Solo dozes, head back and mouth open, Poe extricates himself as carefully as possible. He's still drunker than he has been in a long time, plus so tired and loose and warm now, so thoroughly fucked out, that he's not sure his legs are going to carry him.

He washes up, checking himself in the mirror for bruises and scratches. His hair is bunched up to one side and his mouth hurts, lower lip cracked in the corner, but he can't stop smiling. Exhilaration buzzes, just above his skin, but also below it, a happy dull sound like the leaf dragons courting, showing off, in the thick heat of Yavin summer twilight.

He never believed in bad luck, but tonight just proves him righter than ever. You make your own luck, Poe believes that down to his bones.

He's leaning over, pulling on his boots, then working one hand through the tangles in his hair, when he hears Solo's comlink go off. The device is somewhere in the sheets, and Solo stirs, disturbed by the noise. Poe searches around, finds it, and answers with a grunt.

"Would you tell Captain Solo that the morning meeting is cancelled?"

Poe can't reply. It's the general, her voice warm and tone clipped. The gravity in his skull lets go for several long moments.

"Hello?" she adds. "Poe, it's Leia."

He coughs, opens his mouth, then coughs again. "General."

"Let him know, will you?" 

"Yeah," he says and coughs again.

"Get that looked at, too, before your next rotation," she says. "Last thing we need is you getting sick."

The transmission cuts out. Poe tries to remember how to breathe.

He lies back, just to clear his head, sort out his thoughts. The stateroom's ceiling seems very far away, indistinct as smoke.

Solo grunts in his sleep and flings himself over on his other side, colliding with Poe's chest. He mutters something, smacks his lips, and wraps his arm around Poe's waist.

-

Drunk as they were, and sweaty, and spackled with come, in the morning Dameron smells like warm woolens and ozone. He sleeps on his side, curled toward Han, head pillowed on one bent arm, face slack but still beautiful. His beard's a dark shadow on sharp jaw; his cheek warm against Han's palm.

His lashes, brushing his cheek, are longer than any Han's ever seen, except maybe Luke's.

This is a kid, a man, you could wrap yourself around, who'd let you, welcome you, see only the best in you.

Accordingly, having kicked the hungover beauty out with a ration bar in his mouth and his jacket thrust into his hands, Han is well out of the star system by reveille.


End file.
